


Famished

by Janekfan



Series: TMAHC [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Catharsis, Crying, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Kisses, Love, M/M, Martin is The Best, Nikola was not nice, Panic, Psychological Trauma, Self-Worth Issues, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Suicidal Thoughts, TMAHC, TMAHCweek, Touch-Starved, Trauma, like SO touch starved, past non consensual touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Everything is wonderful. Except Jon.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMAHC [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894246
Comments: 33
Kudos: 446





	Famished

This was ridiculous. 

Perhaps the drink was making him more foolishly in love than usual because he couldn’t stop staring at him and when Jon looked back in turn, he tried to memorize every feature: the delicate flush high in his face, a lazy half-smile, the comfortably loose way he’d unspooled on the couch next to Martin, knee just a scant centimeter from his own. 

He was beautiful like this. 

“Martin.” Jon set his glass aside, knitting his brows in concern in the most adorable way. “Is everything alright?” 

“Of course, Jon. I.” He looked away, cheeks hot, having been caught in his not so subtle gawking. “I was. You.” He laughed softly. “I was looking at _you_.” Jon’s face went bright red and he blinked furiously, ducking his head and peering up at Martin through long lashes briefly before darting away. 

_Adorable._

They spent a few more moments in easy quiet, listening to the fire burn down in the hearth, the crackling and popping providing punctuation to the unspoken conversation between them before Jon breached it.

“M’Martin?” There was something uneasy in his tone now, in the way he traced Perry’s scar on his palm. In his far-away eyes fixed on the flames licking their way over the logs. 

“Jon?” And when that gaze turned upon him, ceaseless and unblinking and awash with damp fear, Martin felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Am I? Did I?” He swallowed, trembling, staring back into the conflagration. “Come back wrong?” 

“What?” Martin’s pulse jumped, sped up, because what did he mean _wrong?_ “What do you mean?" And he was so afraid of the answer. Things were good. Nice, even. Since they were currently not running for their lives but in fact experiencing a little downtime. 

“Did you kn’know.” Horrified, Martin watched his bottom lip begin to quiver. Watched him bite it hard enough to leave marks to get it to stop before his tongue darted out to lick over the imprints of his teeth. He chuffed a laugh, a sad, awful little thing, and Martin could see his misty eyes glowing bright. “Kn’kn’know that Georgie wished I had died? R’rather than wake up?” 

“What?” Rage, disbelief. And Jon flinched back, tears spilling over now with the sudden movement, like it was he who’d done something wrong and, no, no, no he hadn’t. This was all Martin’s fault because he _knew_ Jon wouldn’t have told him this if he hadn’t (accidentally) gotten him drunk. If not for this moment, chances are he’d have kept it all to himself, locked up inside behind his intricate maze of walls. Martin was sick; he and Georgie became a little bit closer during the six months Jon was _away_. He knew her as kind, as someone who was there for Jon when he couldn’t be. Had hoped that while he was in the Lonely--

Jon still had someone on his side. 

He knew little of the choice Jon had been given at the time. But he knew it was either come back. Or don't. And he was so, _so_ grateful he’d chosen to come back to him. 

“She’s right, isn’t she? I, I, I woke up. Twisted? I’m _wrong_ , Martin.” The way he choked on the word made his heart ache. He’d drawn into himself again, the cozy sprawl from before tucked back inside like it never existed in the first place, limbs folded around the most sensitive parts of him and Martin felt at once like he was trying to soothe a wild and injured animal. 

“No, no, Jon. Of course not.”

“But--” he sobbed. 

“Georgie’s the one who’s _wrong._ ”

“It _hurt_ , Martin. To, to _choose._ ” Now the tears came steady, slipping down his thin, scarred face, collecting on his chin until his quivering got the better of them. “Should I have died?” He was whispering, muttering, thinking out loud to himself and much too deep in his own head right now. “How could I have chosen wrong?” 

“Choosing to _live,_ to _survive,_ is not wrong.”

“But.” The way he sounded, so. _Defeated_. As though he’d done the analysis and come up with enough evidence to fill a very large book. And Martin himself was probably in the footnotes. 

“No, Jon. No.” 

“I _hurt_ people. You. Georgie. Melanie. Oh, _god_ , Tim, Sasha.” He was spiraling, rocking back and forth minutely and to see him so undone broke something inside of Martin. It had taken Jon so _long_ to let anyone close, to accept help, and when he was ready, when he needed it most, no one wanted anything to do with him.

“You didn’t trap them at the Institute.” But hadn’t Tim implied exactly that? Blamed Jon for all that went wrong and then some, as if he’d had any more information than the rest of them. And then died without granting him forgiveness? All this time--how heavy was that to carry?

“I don’t want to hurt people, Martin. I never wanted to hurt anyone.” His rambling was muffled behind both hands as they hid his face, syllables gasping and breathless, hyperventilating. 

“I know.” 

“I shouldn’t _need_ this.” 

“It’s alright.” Jon was constantly pale and exhausted, his hands already shook most of the time. He was _starving_ without statements and refused to let Martin help him. 

“Should I.” He lowered his hands, clasped them over his mouth and the stricken anguish in his face made tears sting the corners of Martin’s eyes. “I should let it take the rest of me.” Martin wished he hadn’t strained so hard to hear what sounded far too close to an epiphany for comfort. 

“Jon.” Frantic, panting, his damp eyes searched his and Martin found himself shaking his head, because he knew what was coming next. 

“Would you. Would you stay?” Mouth pressed into a line, gathering courage. “I w’wouldn’t ask, I, just.” When he closed his eyes he looked so vulnerable, so small, and Martin just wanted to wrap him up and take him away from here, to protect him from even himself. “It _h’urts_.” Whispered, a confession exhaled on a breath of hopeful air. “It’s been a long time so. So it--”

“Stop.” The change was like quicksilver; wretched mortification flooding into his expression at the thought that he’d miscalculated and he tried to backpedal. 

“S’sorry.” _Shame_ and embarrassment, like he’d done something dreadful by sharing even a fraction of what he kept bottled up inside. 

“It makes me upset to hear you talk like this.” 

“Of course.” He sounded so _guilty_. “I. I shouldn’t have. I apologize, Martin.” Immediately Jon’s face closed off and he was so good at it, at sliding the mask over his face so smoothly, Martin realized no one in his life ever wanted to hear. He hazarded a guess that Georgie hadn’t either. 

“Jon. I didn’t mean. I want you to come to me when you feel like this. Always.” 

“But.” He was hugging himself tightly, guarded. Exhausted. Cheeks tear-stained and eyes rimmed red, underscored with deep purple bruises. 

“ _I_ want you. The thought of. Of watching you hurt like that. Hurt _more_.” He smiled sadly. “No, Jon. I need you.” Martin didn’t remind him that Elias had all the time in the world to choose another and who knew if that individual would try this hard to cling to their humanity. “And I’m so relieved you chose to come back.” Sobbing anew, Jon shuddered, his nerves most likely open and raw and exposed and Martin should have known better. 

He really should have. 

Jon yelped like a kicked dog when he laid a hand on his shoulder, toppling backwards over the arm of the couch with a scrambling thud in his attempt to get away from him and when Martin rounded the furniture Jon’s narrow chest heaving from the shock of it, heel of one hand pressed firmly to his forehead, the other curled up tight in the collar of his shirt. 

“S’s’sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Martin.” He whimpered, frustrated that he could barely speak, “I. Not.” 

“It’s alright.” Martin breathed deeply, exaggerated, so Jon could hear it, relieved that he attempted to copy him. At this rate, he would pass out with how hard he was fighting. “It’s alright.” He knew Jon had experienced awful things; they all have, likely will continue to be stalked by this disaster. But it became so clear in this moment how Elias, _Jonah_ , isolated Jon from the very start. “It’s alright.” Unbidden, the instances where he’d been threatened by the people who were supposed to be his _friends_ swamped his memory. He’d been alone. Completely alone. All this time and if anything, Martin’s stretch in the Lonely made those signs shine brighter in others and Jon may as well have been a beacon. “I understand.” 

“No. It’s not you. N’n’nikola.” He was calmer, had forced himself to be so; desperate to reassure Martin that it wasn’t his fault. 

“You don’t have to tell me.” But Jon shook his head despite his reassurances. 

“No, you. You d’d’deserve to know what. What you’re dealing with.” Oh, Jon, please don’t hate yourself. “She said it would _hurt_. A’a’and they kept. Kept. _Touching me_. And I couldn’t make them stop. I _wanted_ them to stop. I really did, Martin.” He swiped almost angrily at the flood of new tears. 

“I know, hush, of course you did. Of course.” 

“I fought them. Every time. I, I tried.”

“I know.” 

“I shouldn’t have been caught in the first place. I, I.”

“Shh…It’s not your fault, Jon.”

“And nobody. God, _nobody_. Eli--Jonah. No one _knew_.” 

“I know; that wasn’t fair to you.” A month with his captors. And no one even noticed his absence. Or asked after him when he returned. Even after that awful _joke_ he made to try and, and, and to _process_ what had happened to him. 

“I just want, want. I _want_ , Martin.” Jon pushed himself into the upholstery and Martin knew if he could have torn his way into the fabric and hid, he would have. His short nails were leaving crescent moons in his arms. “Everything _hurts_ , it’s, it’s too much. My head, my, my _skin_. I just. Want.”

“Okay, Jon. Okay. It’s okay.” Even though it was the farthest thing from the truth, but Martin wanted to try something before Jon fell even farther away from him, perhaps to a place where he wouldn’t be able to reach. “Jon? Can I touch you?” Over folded limbs, his eyes kept flickering to and from Martin. “I think it would help.” He kept his voice even and low and kind. “May I?” 

“ _Please._ ” Slowly, so Jon could see each movement, Martin reached for the same shoulder as before, laying his palm over it firmly, and when Jon closed his eyes, more tears spilled down his face. He took a shaky breath, and then another, stronger this time, and Martin let him get used to the weight and the warmth. 

Jon was overwhelmed. Stiff and trembling, lashes dark and damp like freshly spilled ink on his cheeks. 

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” Soft, gentle. “You’re in control, Jon. Tell me to stop and I will listen. I promise.” 

“Stop?” He flinched, waiting for pain, or laughter, or mocking, derisive words, eyes still tightly closed. “P’please.” Martin wasn’t insulted by his test, removing his palm and offering him what he hoped was an easy smile, not blind to how Jon’s gaze now flicked between his hand and his face. If that was it for now, so be it. Martin wouldn’t rush him while they had this time together and kept his posture loose and unassuming, ready to wait forever if that’s what he needed. 

Those sharp brown eyes were fixed on his hand and Martin knew he would never ask for what he wanted. 

“Again?” 

“Please.” Hushed, and this time he relaxed, just a bit. 

“Could I hold you?” 

“Please?” Even softer than before and Martin met him halfway as Jon all but collapsed into his lap, burying his face in his stomach and curling around him. 

“Breathe, you need to breathe, Jon.” Gently, he levered him further into his arms. “I’ve got you.” Squeeze and release. Martin held him tight, held him together until he could again do it for himself, I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. And he felt when it became easier for Jon to force air into his body past the lead bands around his lungs Martin was all too familiar with from experience. 

Jon couldn’t seem to get close enough, as though the small morsels of affection and comfort from the past few days made him crave it somehow more and he was clinging now, breath hitching with each pass of Martin’s palm over his shoulder blades, the knobs of his spine, each rung in the ladder that was his rib cage and lingering at the gap where two had been torn out of him for another. Always for another. His beautiful Jon; used so poorly by so many. Running fingers through his hair, he murmured sweet nonsense into his ear, tucking his still damp face into his neck and smiling at the deep peacefulness of his sigh, how each trembling muscle relaxed, how he settled against him like he was made to fit just there. 

“Jon?” The accompanying touch, the backs of his fingers against his cheek, was as gentle as his inquiry. He was blinking slow, up at Martin’s face, eyes adorably crossed and bleary with his long fingers tangled up in his jumper. 

“M’so tired.” He nuzzled the soft yarn, lashes fluttering closed, and Martin could feel it in the way his weight became heavier, how he melted completely, all the fear, all the panic oozed out of him until only Jon was left. 

“Bed?”

“Mm.” The sleepiest, tiniest nod, and his love for him swelled in his chest.

“Alright, darling.” 

“M’sorry.” 

“Shh, shh.” Martin cupped his face, ran his thumb over the bone of his cheek. “None of that now, no need to be sorry.” Slowly, he lifted Jon up with him as he stood, catching him up under his knees when they threatened to buckle. “I’ve got you.” Jon had yet to unwind his fingers from where they held on so tightly and he pulled Martin down with him into the blankets. 

“Martin.” Lightly, he brushed his lips against a scar left from the Corruption, listened to the little gasp Jon made, and kissed another. Softly, sweetly.

“Is this okay?” 

“Yes.” His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, a whisper of green when Martin looked at him just right that matched his pleading susurration. Another scar. And another, there were so many, on his lined face, down the dark column of his throat. The mark left from Daisy elicited a sharp intake, tensing, and Martin soothed him with another press to his forehead. He caressed each scar, determined to replace each awful memory, each awful _touch_ with something better, something that spoke of care, and fondness, promises of love. 

“Call’d me, ‘darling.’” He sounded drugged, tongue loose and tripping up, syllables slurring with exhaustion and the chartreuse glimmering now hidden behind closed lids. Martin lifted his palm from where it had fallen away, lingering longest where Jon could feel it the least. 

“Of course I did.”

Martin laid awake long after Jon slipped under, stroking his hair, watching him sleep, slack and undone, and hoping the dreams he walked through were at least somewhat kind to both Beholder and Beholden.

**Author's Note:**

> That time when everything is okay and then you're suddenly not.


End file.
